Zero
by gemstone1234
Summary: Songfic based on Hawk Nelson's 'Zero'. The song lyrics match post-rechenbach perfectly. Read this and you'll see what I mean. John mourns the loss of his best friend. Please review if you're feeling kind.


**Zero**

_Ok, so let's get all of this out the way. I, surprisingly enough, do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. Neither do I own the song 'Zero' but I really hope you could have worked that out for yourselves._

_So, I know most of my friends have not heard of Hawk Nelson, I don't know how many people have really, but they have a beautiful song called 'Zero'. It really is worth listening to it before reading this. Normally I wouldn't write a fic based around John, I would rather it be based around Sherlock, but this song seemed too perfect not to write a song fic. So here goes nothing…_

**Your Life dreams are shattered,**  
**Now you're gone away.  
We've cried here for hours,  
And the hours turn to days.**

He just stood at the grave, hand resting gently on the headstone, and he stared still unbelieving. It had been three months since his best friend had died but he often still found himself at his grave. He needed to be there. He needed to demonstrate how much Sherlock had meant to him, still meant to him, he needed to show he did not think Sherlock was a fake despite his final words but most of all he seemed to need reminding Sherlock was gone. It still didn't seem real. He no longer had nightmares and he had managed to move back into 221B unwilling to abandon Mrs. Hudson. But whenever he thought about his friend he could feel his heart ache as an inexplicable loneliness fell across him. It had been a while since the detective had jumped but time no longer seemed to have meaning. It was always the same, his life had lost all excitement the very moment Sherlock's body was lowered into the ground, that part of his life gone forever with his friend.

**We know you regret this,  
Leaving us here,  
With portraits and memories  
That we've held so dear.**

If he were to be honest with himself John felt ever so slightly angry at Sherlock, not for any of the reasons that Mrs. Hudson had for feeling frustration towards the man, but because he had left. Sherlock had died; he did not have to think about the mess he was leaving behind. There was all his stuff in the flat, the chemistry equipment that had to be cleared away and the general mess he used to leave in his wake. John, Lestrade and Mycroft had sorted it all out but none of them were willing to give any of it away. Some of it was packed away in Sherlock's old room and the rest of it was stored in whatever Mycroft called home.

Then there had been the nightmares John had experienced the first couple of months after; where he replayed that awful scene over and over again in his mind. Sometimes Sherlock would not die but was left screaming as all of his bones were crushed under the impact with the concrete below him. Sometimes he just stood on the rooftop, his hand outstretched and tears pouring down his face. John would try to reach out, to touch him, to help him, but he could never reach. Sherlock did not have to worry about that, he was dead.

Sometimes John would come across a situation that reminded him of a time with Sherlock. Suddenly he would find him grinning and to the outside world he looked like a madman, but he didn't care. He clung to those memories; they were the one lasting link between him and his best friend. They were bittersweet but he needed them and he cherished them.

**When I hear your name, it's not the same.  
No matter what they say, I'm not okay.  
And we started at zero, and went different ways.  
Now we're all out here wasting away.**

There hadn't been many people at the funeral, unsurprising really. A few grateful clients who still believed in him, John himself, Mrs. Hudson, a few of the boys from the yard, Molly and of course Mycroft. It had been a somber affair, as one would expect. The eulogy did not seem to fit Sherlock's character. It told of the numerous people he had helped and how he always fought to catch dangerous criminals. It made him out to be perfect, something John knew he wasn't. But it was the imperfections and the eccentricities that came along with the man's brilliance which had made them both such good friends.

Mycroft had spoken a little about his little brother. He told of how protective he had been of him, even at a young age and that he truly regretted that this time he had not managed. This time he had let his brother down and he was truly sorry. Then it was John's turn to speak, his words elicited a mixture of sobs and laughs. He made no pretense about the man's personality; he was far from perfect, cold and antisocial. But he had let John in and for that he was truly thankful. He concluded by saying that he and Sherlock had simply been close friends even though most other people seemed to think something else which formed ripples of laughter through his small audience. After that the rest of the funeral went rather quickly and people soon left, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson standing at his graveside.

**And if we started at zero, then how did things change?  
It seems like just yesterday we were the same.**

It had all happened so quickly. One day it was normal, well as normal as life with Sherlock got. Then over the space of a couple of days manipulation of the worst degree was coming into play. People were turning on him and people were beginning to doubt him. It was all Moriarty; he had planned his friend's downfall. At least he had died in the process though the doctor would have much preferred to end the man's life himself. The next thing John knew his best friend, and flat mate, was buried under six feet of soil, never to make another brilliant deduction or solve another crime.

**It's been three months since he left us.  
So far nothing's been the same.  
And my question without answer is:  
Am I the one to blame?**

Three months had gone past, three whole months. To John it could have easily been three days or three years, nothing seemed to have much meaning or relevance anymore. He no longer goes out on wild chases, he is not interrupted at three in the morning to pursue a promising piece of evidence and he no longer has to gauge how much longer his body can go without food or sleep. For all intents and purposes John Watson was leading a normal life. A life where he went to work, went on dates, went to the pub with his mates (mainly Lestrade) and slept at night. And it was all undeniably dull.

In fact, he went to the pub an awful lot with Lestrade. They weren't there to drink themselves into oblivion, in fact they'd only gotten drunk once and that was a week after it happened. They would have a pint or two and just sit and talk, usually about Sherlock. At first John had blamed himself entirely, for believing that Mrs. Hudson was injured, for getting angry at his friend and leaving him and then, at the very end, doing nothing to stop him from jumping. At first this guilt overwhelmed him, it prevented him from sleeping at night but thanks to reassurance from Lestrade, and nothing at all to do with his therapist, this guilt turned into a nagging doubt.

**He was such a good description of a favored future man.  
He spoke well of other people, and they said the same for him.**

When they had first met Lestrade had told John Sherlock was a great man but that hopefully, one day, he would become a good one. John believed Sherlock had become a good man. In the case that truly was his downfall, the case of the missing children, it had been clear to anyone who took a moment to look at the man, that he really wanted to find them. There was an inherent need for them to be recovered safely. The doctor had seen the way his friend had reacted when the girl screamed when she saw him, it had broken him. He had wanted to help but had been denied.

There were very few people, who had anything good to say about Sherlock Holmes, and all those who did had attended his funeral, but John had plenty of good things to say about the man. He was brilliant and that summed him up. Sherlock had not exactly been particularly forthcoming with the compliments but John could see through him. He had complimented John and he respected him. That was more than the soldier ever could have hoped for from the mysterious man he had the pleasure of calling his friend.

**They say they're sorry, well what are they sorry for?  
How can they possible know what I'm going through?  
I feel like no one's ever had to deal with the pain that I'm dealing with right now.**

It had been a while since Sherlock's death but sometimes the pain of his death still engulfed Dr John Watson. Occasionally he would shut himself off from the world, usually for a night, and mourn his loss. Sometimes people who recognized him from the newspapers would offer their condolences. John would nod and carry on, not wanting to be impolite by ignoring it but not understanding why people felt the need to say they were sorry. It's not like they had done anything which led to the situation he found himself in. Sometimes he just wished that they would all shut up and go away. Whenever that thought entered his mind he smiled. It sounded just like something Sherlock would have said to someone.

**Does anyone have answers?  
Just Six months ago everything was fine. or so it seemed.  
What turn of event caused him to go downhill?  
His parents are devastated.  
His girlfriend's depressed.  
What was he thinking!?**

Sometimes he thought about Sherlock, late at night if he couldn't sleep, while he supped gently on a cup of tea. Sometimes he would contemplate whether or not he could have done anything to stop him. Perhaps if he knew the real reason Sherlock jumped he could have helped. It wasn't because people thought he was a fraud, his ego was much too big for that to drive him to suicide. So what was it then? There was just something that didn't seem quite right.

Molly seemed to be taking his death in quite an odd way. After the funeral she had attempted to avoid contact with anyone who had any contact with Sherlock. She had all but ignored John. He really wanted to know what was going through his friend's head when he made that final step. Was it clarity? Did he finally manage to stop all the thoughts racing through his mind? Was he scared of dying? Did he long for comfort that nobody was able to give?

**It seems like just yesterday we were the same.  
We were the same.**

Sherlock looked sadly at his friend as he made his way into the hospital he worked at. He wanted to see John again, to hear his voice and to actually feel cared for by someone. Ever since _died _nobody had cared for him, he had been on the run, hiding to protect John and the others and how he longed for them all. He wanted to feel the safe walls of 221B surrounding him and the comfort of the violin under his chin. But he knew he could not have it, perhaps he could never have it. Anything to protect them. The detective knew his health was going downhill, one too many days without food, one too many nights without sleep and quite simply, far too much time alone an unloved.

He had not indulged in any habits, unless neglect was a habit. He neglected his health but there was much more at stake. The fall had changed him irreversibly; he could never be the person he once was. It would be worth it though. Worth it because John was safe, everyone he cared about was safe.


End file.
